


Deep Water

by FallingFaintly



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:27:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27529198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallingFaintly/pseuds/FallingFaintly
Summary: Robin Ellacott, desperately needing to move forward with her life, seeks the help of private investigator Cormoran Strike to find someone from her past. What happens then will drag both of them into deep water.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 10
Kudos: 28





	1. The set up.

Robin Ellacott paused with her hand on the door handle, the corrugated glass panel in front of her displaying the words C B Strike, Private Investigator. This was a big step to take. Years of secretly nurtured obsession would move into reality once she walked through this door. So far it had been all inside, hidden and safe, no way it could get her into trouble. Once she did this, she would find herself on a path that could end very badly indeed. Still time to turn round and walk downstairs again. She took a steadying breath in and closed her eyes. Images snapped across her mind’s eye in seconds – a gorilla mask, a stairwell, a court room, the inside of her bedroom, first a sanctuary, then a cell. Opening her eyes, determination swelling in her again, she turned the handle.

Inside, directly in front of her, lay a desk, and opposing it, a sofa. There was no one sitting by either. She turned to see what else was inside, and to her left, a door to an inner office was slightly ajar. She heard the occupant say, in an accent she couldn’t quite place, “Enough. We’re done,” followed by the click and thump of a phone receiver being replaced with some force.

“Hello…” she called, pushing the door wider. Inside, at a desk cluttered with paper, paper cups and some crumpled wrappers from packets of digestives, sat a man equally dishevelled, crumpled shirt open and unbuttoned at the neck, face unshaven, and eyes red rimmed and puffy. She might almost have believed he’d been crying.

“Mr Strike?” Robin asked.

He looked up, and she noted that he took about 3 seconds to register that she was there.

“Hello,” he replied, a little dazed. A couple of seconds more was all he seemed to need to remember that this was his office, and he had a potential client, at which point, he stood up. Robin thought he took fractionally longer than she expected to rise, and he came round from the back of the desk to proffer his hand. “Yes, how can I help?”

“I’ve got a job for you,” Robin said after another steadying breath. He gestured to the seat opposite his and returned to his own. Robin perched primly on the edge of the seat, back straight, holding herself with that steely dignity she had found so necessary to get through the day now. She was trying to project calm authority. She had no idea if that was coming through, but Strike had leaned elbows onto the desk and nodded.

“OK,” he responded. “What do you need from me?”

West Country? Definitely a Devon or Cornwall drawl in there somewhere.

“I need you to find someone. A man. I don’t think it will be too hard, but I need you to be discreet.”

Strike looked at her for a long moment. Her chin slightly raised. _Calm Authority. Calm Authority._

“I have a name and a previous address. Do you need anything else?” She said.

“You just need to find him?”

She nodded.

Strike twisted his mouth a little, thoughtfully, nodding in reply and looking down. “I can do that, yes. Fairly straightforward job, really,” he said, and looked back at her, rubbing his chin. “Not to do myself out of a fee, but it’s something you could probably do yourself these days.”

“No,” she said quickly, and he raised his eyebrows in surprise. She steadied her tone. “No,” she repeated. “I’d like you to do it, please.”

He looked at her a minute more, shrugged, and told her he’d give her a copy of his rates and asked for the information she had.

“Leave it with me,” he said, holding the door open for her. “I’ll be in touch.”

Strike pulled out his fags after she had left, filling the kettle and flicking it on, throwing a teabag into his chipped mug. He filled the cup, poured in a scant amount of milk, which he’d gingerly sniffed first, into the hot water, leaving the teabag in as he took it bag to his desk, and lit a cigarette as he sat down.

His mind drifted back to this morning’s phone call, Charlotte’s wheedling pleas a sudden change in tack from her haughty declarations that he would be back when he realized how pointless he was without her. “Please, Bluey, don’t do this. We can make it. I know you know that. Please come back.”

He thought of how she’d looked when she realized he was walking out of the door, glacial beauty that had seared his heart time and time again, contorted in vindictive shock that he was actually following through with it. She was like ice, beautiful, glittering in so many of his memories, but ice burns as well as fire if you hold on to it too long.

As if to counter a chill, he fished the teabag out of the boiling water and squeezed it in his thick fingers, hissing at the burst of heat, and tossing it in the bin. He took a hearty mouthful, and his thoughts turned to this morning’s visitor, and her curiously affected elegant poise, strawberry blonde hair and undeniably pretty face.

It seemed an odd task, something that could be easily done with some internet searching by anyone with basic competence. He looked at the piece of paper she had given him, on which she had written, in tidy rounded handwriting, the name of the man she was seeking, an address, and her own name and mobile number.

“Kate Shadwell,” he said aloud, put her name and number into his contacts, and did a perfunctory search for her quarry. It didn’t take long at all to discover the man, and Strike leaned back in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck and draining his mug. The image and details of a convicted rapist, now on the sex offenders register after his release from prison, loomed before him on the laptop screen.


	2. The Mistake

Robin sat curled up on the sofa, absently scrolling on her phone, tea slowly going cold on the small, low table beside her. The late autumn evening had darkened quickly, and she pulled her head up as the headlights of a passing car flashed on the walls of the lounge, and she checked the time. Matthew would be home soon, with his boring tales of corporate tedium, and his endless scheming on the next move up the ladder.

It didn’t matter. None of it would matter if she succeeded. The holding pattern would cease and she’d be able to land. She tugged the curtains closed and looked at the comfortable home she shared with Matthew. Her first boyfriend. Her only boyfriend so far. Likely her last boyfriend. She didn’t envisage what would happen with boyfriends afterwards, and it didn’t really matter. All that mattered was the plan.

She could still pull back, she supposed. If Mr Strike found what she was looking for (and she was sure he would, because that was the whole point of going there), she still wasn’t compelled to act. Well, she was, but the compulsion was something deep and intangible, not an actual physical obligation that could not be stopped. Not yet.

She thought she would have to give Matthew up if she did it. She knew it was likely that he would find it a step way too far. He was content to have been her rock through these past years. The brave, protective knight who stood by her through her darkest time, fixing himself as the hero to her damsel in distress. He wouldn’t take well to the massive shift in cast that her throwing off the damsel role would bring. Who would he be if she was the vengeful Morrigan? If she didn’t need him to soothe her anymore?

She was sad at the thought of him not being there. She’d thought they were perfect at one point in her life. But even before it happened, she knew it wasn’t what she wanted. Now she had something she wanted even more than she had ever wanted a perfect life with kids and car and mortgage and a couple of nice holidays a year. Something that would mean all of that was forever out of reach. But she couldn’t imagine herself ever reaching for it now, anyway.

“Thanks for meeting me here,” Strike said, putting the glass of white wine down in front of her, and taking a pull on his pint before sitting down opposite her. “I’ve had some business to take care of and I thought I’d save you the climb, given that it’s such a simple resolution.”

His new client reached out and rubbed the base of the wine glass slightly. She pressed her lips together and her eyes darted to the door. She looked back him.

“Have you got it, then?” She asked, and he could hear the impatience in her tone.

“Yes,” he replied. There was a pause. “Can I ask why you’re looking for him? What’s your connection?” He kept his own tone light, watching her reactions. He could see she was becoming more uncomfortable by the second, and there was a flash of something else, not panic exactly, but a definite uptick in vigilance.

“I don’t really want to discuss it, Mr Strike. Sorry to be short with you, but I really did just need that one thing from you,” she said, holding out her hand. He reached into his overcoat pocket and handed over a brown envelope. He noticed her hand trembling a little as she took it. She put it in the handbag next to her on the seat, and seemed to relax a little, picking up the glass and taking a sip.

“That’s Yorkshire, isn’t it?” He enquired casually, a smile on his lips.

“Yes,” she acknowledged. “Although I’ve lived in London a little while now. It’s not what I thought it’d be.”

“No,” he said. “It’s a bit of a change to the rest of the country.”

“Mmm,” she replied, suddenly knocking back a much larger gulp of her wine and following it up by seeming to decide to drain the entire glass. She was slightly breathless when she put the glass down.

“’Scuse me a minute,” she said quickly, getting up and heading for the toilet.

Strike was taken aback by the erratic behaviour, watching her disappear into the ladies, but he took his opportunity swiftly, pulling the bag over and checking for a purse. A driving license sat neatly displayed in one of the slots. _Robin Ellacott_. He put it back quickly and replaced the bag on the chair, leaving him enough time for another mouthful of ale before she reappeared, a little more composed.

“I think that concludes our business,” she said, that prim sense of affected control she had when she was in the office returning. “I’ll get your payment to you ASAP.”

“Ok, Miss Shadwell,” he said, as she leaned over to pick up her handbag and held out her hand as she straightened up. He pulled himself to his feet and shook her hand firmly. “Best of luck with whatever it is.”

She nodded slightly and walked out. He could see through the window that she stopped outside and took some shuddering breaths with her eyes closed before moving away.

“You should leave it, mate,” he said quietly to himself as he took another thoughtful drink. He knew he wasn’t going to, though.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a suggestion for dark!Robin AU. Not sure quite where we are going to end up, but obviously the themes are pretty intense here, so it's rated mature.


End file.
